Beaurocratic Bumblings

To receive my housing benefit, I need a social security number, or so the increasingly arsey letters keep telling me. I quite like free money, so decide to make the trek in the pouring rain to the social security office.

The woman at the desk seems friendly and is having an animated conversation with another woman. I wait my turn then turn on my beaming 'anglaise un peu perdue' smile and explain my problem. The woman is distinctly unimpressed. "Are you sure you 'ave got zee right place?" She stares at my soggy jeans and dripping Gore-tex. I stand my ground, determined to stay in the dry.

She grunts and points at a complicated looking machine. "You'll 'av to zee a conseilleur".
"Er...how does it work?" I ask, meaning the whole system of meeting someone. Surely 'conseilleur' isn't the word for the machine? Is it really that simple to get a social security number? I start wondering who I could get one for...if only Bas and Pom were still with me...
"Ze green button," she snarls, somehow managing to combine two doses of withering pity with a shot of disdain.

Well, it can't be that bad. Everyone knows it's the red buttons you have to watch out for.
I hit it.
A little slip of paper shoots out: You are number 166. There are 5 people in the queue.
Only in France do they have to turn the most elegant of British institutions into a butchery of Argos-style individualism. I fume in a corner, my indignation and sanity slowly being eroded away by Kate Bush's persistent warblings of Wuthering Heights on repeat.
Eventually, I'm summoned into a room.

The next 10 minutes are without doubt the most confusing 10 minutes of my time in France, if not my time on Earth.
Once I've asked the woman to slow down, repeat herself, slow down again, and eventually write some of what she's saying down, the conversation goes something like this:
Incredibly irritating old bat: What is your number?
Me: Well, see, that's the problem. I don't have one yet.
IIOB: I need zee number!!
Me: Well, yes, so do I!
IIOB: You cannot see me without a number.
Me: *many English profanities under my breath*...I need a number. Please.
IIOB: Are you or are you not number 166?
Me: Oh. Yes.
[She takes my number and promptly throws it into the bin. I'm sure the one person after me in the queue was incredibly grateful that she checked in case I'd cheated the system.]

IIOB: Alors, what eez ze problem?
Me: I don't have a social security number and I need one for my hou-
IIOB: Well I can't give you one.
Me: Where do I have to go to get one?
IIOB: Here.
Me: Er...well, here I am. How do I get one?
IIOB: You need to talk to a conseilleur.
Me: I thought that's what I was doing now.
IIOB: [Sigh]. Do you have a payslip?
Me: No, I can't get a payslip until I've got a number.
IIOB: Well, you can't have a number until we've got a copy of your payslip.

Take the last three sentences, add a background beat of decreasingly polite noises to indicate irritation, throw in a constant crescendo, a modulation on each repeat to a slightly higher key, and an increase in tempo. Repeat until exhausted.

Voila: la beaurocracie francaise.